Monday, December 20, 2010

Note To Self:

7'8" ceilings are not tall enough for a 5'11" man to make an overhead swing with a 34" bladed bastard sword.

Strike low, reverse direction; come around for a strike where the neck meets the shoulder...

*scraping sound*

Fuck!

Oh, how I miss my old house. Vaulted ceilings, it had. Fifteen feet high at the center. There was a beautiful spot of dead space where the hall ended in an empty spot between the living room and dining room. Not much; about fifteen feet square.

Fifteen cubic feet may not a dojo make, but as long as you kept combinations to two or three strokes, you could swing a sword around in there with impunity.

Hate this damned apartment. Nowhere to shoot within forty miles of here, can't even run a sword drill...

*sigh*

Where'd I leave that tube of plaster patch...

3 comments:

  1. LOL. Thanks... the image of you brushing the plaster dust out of your hair is priceless.

    "There can be only-- DOH!"

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  2. Oh come on, I'm not that bad. I don't spout witless one-liners while working out!

    It's usually just muttered recriminations at myself to keep the blade straight; that hitting someone with the flat doesn't accomplish much.

    Thankfully, my spatial awareness is decent even when I'm preoccupied, and I didn't take out the ceiling in spectacular fashion. I just caught it with the tip - left a gouge about eight inches long.

    Have already patched it initially. It needs a bit more work, but it's already hard to see if you don't know what you're looking for.

    And if the idea of me with some plaster dust in my face amuses you, you should've seen me when I was working construction.

    Had to remodel a water-damaged bathroom once. The original construction had been with plain plasterboard, and not the stuff made for use in bathrooms and such. Ended up having to replace it all around the shower/tub. Part of this involved rebuilding the corners out of plaster.

    Well, of course this involves sanding, and was inside a crappy low-rent apartment where the bathroom had about zero air-flow.

    My boss at the time was too cheap to spring for masks, so using the power sander in there got interesting.

    I came out of that bathroom looking like Casper the friendly fucking ghost - except for the friendly part.

    I swear, I never did get it all washed out of my work shirt; and I spent like three days coughing up that dust and blowing it out of my nose. S'a wonder I didn't end up with some equivalent of the black lung.

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  3. Oh, and for the record: even I'm not crazy enough to swing a live blade around in the living room.

    It's was a Polypropelene trainer I recently picked up for the express purpose. Noticed I was getting a little too out of practice for my taste.

    (The "hand-and-a-half" model near the bottom)

    Don't really want to think about what a carbon steel bastard sword tip would have done to that ceiling...

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